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BLUBBERHOUSES MOOR

I have often pondered on words that have been written of your
verdant moorside chase, where so many faces you portray to suit
each season, the bluest haze of summer, autumn’s golden demise,
winter’s alpine crest and spring for her blossom to bare.

a moorland bereft
no cosmetic piety
nature weaves her own

While malignant storm clouds threaten the scurrying wild life,
an inclement veil cloaks the highest reaches, all that bore a
resemblance now shapeless in the mist, gone the track to walk
upon, only when the wildest of winds sway the sturdiest of
trees, does the sun peep through the canopy.

seasonal blending
shackles break for to renew
nature cuts the chord

The mighty noonday sun lifts the chill of the beastly breeze, as I
listen to the voice of sullen water blazing a trail on its journey to
the river, a far cry from the babbling spring and the wide-open span
of the ocean. Yet it is not nostalgia I yearn for, I have many times
witness your fickle temperament, for I was born and fused within
your many mordant moods, here in this mossy valley for I am a
part of that, your blood which runs through me.

frozen winter sleeve
that blankets the living earth
springs jubilation

© Harry J Horsman 2018

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